Doomsman's Herald
by Morta's Priest
Summary: On the day that Lord Voldemort fell, at dawn, Harry Potter obtained the last of the Deathly Hallows. In that moment, stretching into endlessness, he faces the Doomsman - and the choice of his life. Fate beckons on the sound of an endless symphony.
1. Free Spirit

**_Doomsman's Herald_ **by Morta's Priest

* * *

**Chapter 1 – Free Spirit**

" _Avada Kedavra!"_

" _Expelliarmus!"_

It sounded like a cannon firing when the two spells collided in mid-air, and golden flames erupted between Harry and Lord Voldemort, rising upwards to meet the coming dawn as they billowed outward. The Elder wand flew from the Dark Lord's hand, towards the master it refused to kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last. Harry caught it easily as Voldemort's face slackened, his scarlet eyes rolling up, and he fell backwards with a dull thud.

The moment of victory seemed to stretch out, lengthen, even as total silence took over. Harry breathed unsteadily as he felt the unforgiving wand in his hand, distractedly noting that everything seemed a little less real than it ought to be. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse once again, and that should have been it. Tom Riddle's shell stared blindly at the ceiling, where the early morning sun just barely crept over the horizon.

It was over, right?

The Elder Wand felt slippery in his hand, and Harry looked down at his hand confusedly as something hard tapped against the wood. There, on the very same hand that had caught Voldemort's weapon, he saw a ring that should not be there. He tried to cry out in surprise, but he could not manage even a squeak as he realized what it was; the Gaunt ring, adorned with the Resurrection Stone, that he had left in the forest. It glittered innocently in the rays of the morning sun. The stone that he had intended to leave behind was back with him. There was a sudden weight on his back, too; Harry knew already what he would find there. He glanced aside, to find his friends, and though he saw Ron and Hermione approaching, they slowed down to a crawl even as he watched, freezing like all the rest.

Without even a sound, the Great Hall evaporated. Whiteness surrounded Harry on all sides, stifling him for a moment, before it gave way to clean air. There was an all-pervading silence and a cloudy mist that slowly billowed around his ankles, formless. Harry recognized it immediately, and grimaced. He had been here before, and very recently. The train station was gone, that ethereal place, to make way for something with barely any description, an even bleaker nothingness.

"So, was that it?" Harry asked aloud, not expecting an answer. "I get a short time among the living, to finish what I started, and then I get pulled back here again? What was the point of _that_?"

Nobody answered him. Harry looked down at himself self-consciously and found that he was wearing his clothes, this time, and even the Elder Wand was still clasped in his fist alongside that impossible ring. The cloak surely remained on his back as well - all the Hallows. He raised his hand to study the magical gem socketed within the ring, and wondered why it had come back to him. Had he claimed this Hallow for himself, by using it?

It was an unimportant question compared to the larger problem. He was, as he understood it, standing on the path between the living and the dead; he had narrowly escaped once, and he was rather worried that this time death would actually take. Dying, at such a young age, seemed unfair – yet he'd done it once already. What if it really was over, just like that?

Harry sighed. Most likely he had collapsed beside Voldemort, another victim to the same spell that had robbed his enemy of life, that had ended the nightmare. His friends would certainly take care of everything, Harry was certain, now that the biggest threat was gone, now that peace could return to the Wizarding World. Ron and Hermione had each other, of course, and Ginny – Harry swallowed thickly, wondering what she would do. Harry had kept her well away from the action, knowing what a danger it was to be close to him, and it was now abundantly clear that he had not been too cautious at all.

Still, he knew she still waited for him, for everything to be over. He thought of all the others that had joined him in that final struggle as well, all those people who had been there beside him as the last Horcruxes were destroyed, and Voldemort finally defeated. If he was dead, he had left them behind. They had already mourned him once, today. What would twice do to them? He shivered involuntarily. Right now, he needed company, someone to tell him what was going on. He knew of one person that would be more than willing.

"Professor Dumbledore?" He called uncertainly. He looked around with a slight hope that the man would come striding out of the mists, congenial as ever, to help. Harry wondered where the man was, since he had been there so very quickly the previous time. "Professor Dumbledore? Are you here?"

"I am sorry, but he has already gone on," said a baritone voice.

Harry twisted around with his wand raised, but he almost let it fall out of his hand when he saw the person who had spoken. Just beyond the first layer of mist stood a tall figure with long black hair, weaved into intricate patterns. A golden hood drawn over his face, and he wore what could only be described as golden armour, studded with black and grey ornaments. More than his physical form, though, he was stunned by the tangible feeling of immense power that seemed to emanate from him, a testament to incredible potential. Harry suddenly felt terribly insignificant, as it seemed like the man was impossibly huge, like a gigantic mountain far out at the horizon, or a darkened cloudbank, rising for miles and miles.

"There is no need for fear," the figure said carefully as he stepped out of the mist. His boot landed onto small stone tiles, set in an intricate pattern that spread around his feet as if they grew from his boot, until even the ground beneath Harry's feet was changed into solid ground. Plants erupted from fresh soil and wrapped themselves around pillars that sprung into existence from nowhere, joining in wide arches at the top. Flowers and thorns appeared on the weaving flora, surrounding the impromptu little garden on all sides. "The mind creates the place, just as the place creates the mind. Please, search for balance."

As quickly as it had appeared, the terrifying impression of infinity diminished from the man, and Harry breathed in relief. The newly appeared structures, though still vaguely ethereal, gave his mind some much-needed anchors, and he leaned against one of the pillars as his knees almost buckled, glad to find it strong and sturdy. He was exhausted from his fight with Voldemort, finding himself back _here,_ so he really could do without any more upsets.

"What the _hell _is going on?" he asked at last, eyes sharp. "Who are _you?_"

The new arrival looked at Harry with an expression of relief that he seemed wholly out of place, and clasped his hands behind his back. "You were almost correct in your earlier assumptions," he started. "You are dead." The man paused at Harry's pained expression. "No, no, that is inaccurate phrasing in your language. You are not _dead_, truly, but existing only in _potential, _rather than actuality. This is - in-between_._" He raised his hand and gestured at the tall pillars. "Where we are now, it is the space between moments, the time between past and future, lengthened into perpetuity. It is where all things form. The intricacies shall be discussed another time, I think." He lowered his hand to a lavishly decorated table that spontaneously grew out of the floor, alongside two large chairs that were similarly ornate, and picked up a cup that seemed to form out of the very air. "Please, take a seat."

Harry nodded wearily, and slowly sat down, his mind whirling. He had no idea who the newcomer was, but he seemed kindly enough, and something about his armor tickled a distant memory. It was better than finding a deformed baby under a chair like last time, he wryly considered. Those thoughts quickly gave way to his more immediate worries. If he was not dead, would he wake up later, in the hospital wing? If he was unconscious, why was he back here again? A chilling thought came to him then; perhaps he was in a coma, never to wake again.

It was the stranger that broke the silence after a time. "Tell me, young wizard, what do you know of the workings of the worlds?" He leaned back with a frown when Harry just blinked in confusion at the subject. "It is such a funny thing, time. Ages pass by, so many years upon years, and yet very few remember the lessons of the last. It seems to me only moments ago that the first of the Eldest awakened around their ancient lakes. The stream of ages leaves many sailors behind, it seems." He frowned slightly. "What I mean to explain, is that the tales of the past do not always survive to the present. Not as more than legends, at least, or the sayings of ancient wisdom. The history that I represent is not like your own. My history is hidden in the deepest of histories."

Harry wondered what the man was even rambling about. "I don't understand – who _are_ you?"

The man nodded gravely. "It is not a surprise that you fail to understand, since you are presently a being of a later age, with no more than an inkling of the truth. The Symphony of Ilúvatar has a habit of calling back upon itself, so your familiar path is predictable as well. There are common quirks in the rhythm, elements that reappear, again and again." He gestured to himself. "I am called Námo, but I have taken other names over my long existence. Many have fashioned themselves in my image, even without my permission. I carry the name Mandos as well, after my place of dwelling. Others call me the Doomsman."

The _Doomsman_? That certainly did not sound inviting, and Harry's suspicion of the other's identity suddenly became a lot more plausible. The figure across from him was not dressed in a black cloak and bony as a skeleton, but… "Wait - You're _Death?"_

Námo looked away with a small frown. "I have been called a Ruler of the Dead before, true. It suits me well enough, if you wish to use that title, though I do not prefer to be so presumptuous," he replied, and his frosty blue eyes seemed to twinkle like Dumbledore's did. "Námo will do, I believe. I know why you come to that question, I think - you carry the three artifacts that have their origin in me."

Harry looked down at his wand and ring, and reached for the cloak on his back, the one that Dumbledore had given him on his first Christmas at Hogwarts, his father's invisibility cloak. "The Hallows, you mean. They're – I mean, you made them, I guess?" he said awkwardly.

Námo gave the smallest shrug. "Well, yes. But, there is no doubt that they are _yours. _These objects are symbols, in the end. The wand exists to overpower, the ring to parlay, the cloak to protect. These are three ways to conquer death. Let me ask you this - which one of these 'Hallows' would you choose to keep, knowing these meanings?"

That was an easy question. "The cloak."

Námo's lip twitched at his immediate answer. "And why is that?"

"It's…" Harry ran his hand across the silky substance of the invisibility cloak with an unblemished hand – the remains of Umbridge's terrible punishment were gone. "In the story of the three brothers – which is somewhat true, I guess – the wand led to the owner's quick death, and I guess it's because power alone doesn't solve all, or even most problems, and others would be jealous of it." He swallowed, finding his throat suddenly dry. "The stone allows the dead to return, but they don't belong in life anymore, and they do not wish such an existence. I suppose it means that parlaying with death only delays what's supposed to happen naturally. But – the cloak is different. It's not just a way to avoid death, like the others, but more - it's passed on to one's children, rather than kept. It can be used to protect others from death. That's why the brother with the cloak met death willingly, as an equal, rather than by force."

"You have thought about this before," Námo observed good-naturedly. "It is a solid answer, and one that many would struggle to give. There have been many mighty heroes in history, Harry Potter. Eärendil slew the great dragon Ancalagon the Black only a short while ago in my reckoning, and the great but terrible Melkor himself faced all his brethren in battle, only barely defeated by our collective might in a war that shook the very earth. Many others, great and small, still lie in the future, waiting to be born. Some heroes are marked by great victories, changing all of time in their wake, while others fight the smaller battles. You are the latest in a long and illustrious heritage, as the slayer of Voldemort, a self-made monster."

"I was hardly alone in the fight," Harry objected. "And I'm not _that _powerful."

"Power does not solve all, or even most problems," Námo chided good-naturedly, turning Harry's words back on himself. "Whether your foe was weaker than those whose evil he emulates, is ultimately unimportant. Your willingness to stand up and fight, to battle to the bitter end, that is what makes one stand out. Even those who dared to spit in the face of their oppressors can be called heroes, after all, even when they cannot topple their empire." He looked down upon the Elder Wand, and for the first time a semblance of a smile appeared on his face. "You won your battle, even in diminished form, and despite facing off against your own might, misused. You should be proud."

Harry blinked. "What do you mean, _diminished_?"

Námo's eyes glittered, then, as if sharing great secrets. "There is a reason that you are the first to unite these three artifacts, these Deathly Hallows, beyond mere happenstance and luck. There is a reason you are the first and only 'Master of Death'." He smirked. "It is a poor translation at best, after all these years, but one cannot expect any more from such ancient times. _Herald_ would have been more accurate." He drank from his cup for a moment before it vanished back into nothingness. A silence lingered, though finally, Námo spoke again, softer. "These artefacts of power, they can only be united by he who was meant to have them. Only by the very person who was supposed to have them since the beginning, had the dark one not intervened. You."

Námo steepled his fingers together, and he watched Harry closely. "You are more than you believe, Harry Potter. With a single blow, the Vala Melkor, whom I and my brethren call a Dark Lord, washed a gulf between the land of Valinor and you that was impossibly wide. It was not a barrier of space alone, but of time. An ocean of years was thrown between us, a running torrent of eternity. Only with his defeat, you returned to my sight once again, in the light of the sun and moon. Finally, I was able to attempt your rescue. Despite my efforts, you had already been reborn as a human in the Seventh Age, as Melkor had intended. Thousands of years beyond our most distant thoughts, you were sent to die as a mortal, removed from the symphony, lost in the abyss of ages so that the Valar might never discover you." He smiled, then. "He failed."

Harry had left his chair behind somewhere during Námo's speech; he had barely even noticed. "You're telling me – I'm not _human_?"

"You are human enough – now," Námo said enigmatically. "You were born as that which is closest to your true being; a wizard with a destiny. The wizards of your age are a strand of the ancient magic, carrying within them the diluted power of the Maiar themselves. They are offspring of the Istari, sent across the sea to help the Elves, Dwarves and Men in a future age, though I do not know why. Two of their number move into distant lands, and furthered their lines there. Their nature runs through all of humanity's blood, now, though in few it is strong enough to manifest."

"So I'm human, but I'm not supposed to be, by what you said earlier?" Harry narrowed his eyes. "I really don't understand…"

"You were to be my herald," Námo said, and he removed his hood to show a small black crown, studded with gems gleaming in ethereal light, over a face that betrayed he had little to smile about, ever. "Just as Manwë, leader of the Valar, had Eönwë as his proud representative, I wished for my own. Unwilling to take a Maia from among someone else's followers, I sought to call for a new herald to suit my own person, one to carry out my deeds across the sea, where they would certainly be needed, for the age of war is not yet done. However, Melkor sought to disturb what he could among us, to wound those who stood against him. You were a victim, swept away out of my reach."

Harry shook his head slowly, uncomfortably aware about the weight of Námo's words - they seemed almost to carry the air of inevitability with them, as if nothing could contradict them. "Manwë, Maia, Melkor... I don't know any of those words. I think you have the wrong person!"

"No," Námo said swiftly. "I am not wrong." His voice was suddenly hard, and with a surge of power his incredible aura of might returned, sweeping Harry up in fear and rapture as he shone as the sun. "I am Námo, one of the Valar, hailing from Outside of existence itself, where the One dwells with the Flame Imperishable!" He swept his arm aside, and it seemed as if he moved whole continents, and Harry cowered away by instinct, barely stringing coherent thoughts together at all. "We are what created this world from its base beginnings, we played the great symphony with our creator to make all that was, all that there will be in this world!" He calmed a little, and his eyes betrayed compassion. "We are _gods_ by your reckoning, the forces that exist beyond mortal ken. And you - you were to be my herald, my bannerman."

The wild might that Námo had unleashed vanished in an instant, and Harry sagged to the ground, his eyes failing to focus for a moment. The power shown had been incredible, and it felt like he was swept away on a hurricane, even as he sat still, and his mind refused to take it all in, rebelling against what it could plainly see. He trembled as he got to his feet, and Námo looked away stiffly. For a moment, Harry was unsure if he was supposed to bow to Námo, or do any of the other things you were supposed to do when faced with gods, but the few times he had visited a church when he was small gave him no good indications. He was pretty sure that golden-armoured doomsmen had not been mentioned, anyway.

Námo seemed to follow his thoughts, but did not comment. "This is what I am, wizard," he said. "It is what I have always been. Even as you see me, I am greatly diminished, for I come to you from a vast distance." He looked down imperiously. "That is only half the truth, however. I am of the Vala, immortal and born of the spirit. The Maia are similar, with their own immortality, great beings of spiritual might that serve and protect their master or creator." He nodded. "I cannot show you the whole truth, not without making the choice for you. Your mortal body could only contain a mortal soul, or it would burn through in years, limited by the flesh. Like the Half-Elven, you will have to _choose_."

Harry shivered as he tried to warm himself up; he felt like he had been dunked in ice-water, now that Námo had once more hidden his power. His mind whirled, meanwhile, considering the strange history that this being proposed with utmost sincerity. "You're talking about _angels, _aren't you?" Harry asked at last, with widening eyes. "I'm supposed to be a bloody _angel? _Am I going to grow _wings_ next?"

"If you so desire," Námo said lightly, and his eyes were mirthful, though he did not smile. "When I first found you in this age, I meant to take you back with me to Valinor, my home, right from your crib in your ruined house, surrounded by the dead. Yet – as is my own doom – I saw what would befall you later in life, should I leave you be, and I hesitated. Over these years, I could see your life, but to interact with such distant times is difficult, even when sheer power should permit it. I knew then that your presence here would make a difference, would add a joyful note to the great harmony even as a mortal man, and thus I allowed it. I let you live your life, and let you conquer your great enemy. I watched you become the person I had hoped you could be, even without my guidance, and I acknowledge that Eru had chosen wisely. I was content to wait."

"…Until now," Harry finished for him, taking a deep breath. "...Okay. Angels."

Námo nodded regally. "This is why I am here, now, at your victory. This is a time before you truly lay down unbreakable ties, before the choice is taken from you. I still have need of a herald, a representative in the early ages of the world, and you were always my first choice." He gestured to his forehead, to his shining crown. "The stone which you carry in a ring was cut from my own crown, forged by master smiths of Valinor. The focus you wield, once a staff, was carved from a branch of the silver tree Telperion, retrieved from when it still lived. The cloak you wear is weaved from starlight and moonlight, held together by my will alone. These Hallows, as you call them, are far older than you suppose – far, far older – and not meant for the descendants of Alatar and Pallando, those wayward Istari. Their true user could only come from my own line, could only be of my spirit." He reached out, and the three objects shone brightly, and a soft song seemed to arise. "These relics are yours by birthright, and that is why they found you, after wandering from place to place for ages."

Harry swallowed. "How am I supposed to believe all this? Different times and worlds, gods and angels…?" He shook his head. "How can I be a 'Maia', if I don't know anything about that? I'm just - just me."

Námo raised an eyebrow, and the mist around them evaporated as light pierced the clouds from afar. Harry's breath hitched when a vast mountain range appeared around him, bordered on one side by an ocean that stretched as far as the eye could see. The valleys between the steep peaks seemed impossibly deep, many dozens of miles down. The spot they occupied, surrounded by pillars and sheer vertical drops, was on the very tallest of spires, adjacent to a truly gargantuan fortress built into the very rock itself, as if it had been carved there. Tall spires reached even higher still. Clouds drifted by, far below it all, wheeling in a sweet-scented breeze. The very air seemed to burst with life, and Harry felt almost buoyant, as if he could stretch out his arms -

"Is this… _heaven_?" he murmured.

Then he saw the sunrise, the brilliant warmth that ascended from the distant waters, and it illuminated the land and the small islands that dotted the great sea in a golden glow. It seemed as if the hills had caught on fire with their brilliant colours, and the water was clear enough to see the bottom. The sight stirred something inside him, and Harry stood up almost without realizing it. The light of the sun was blinding for the time of day, and Harry had the momentary impression that it was very young, younger than him. The thought fluttered away as his eyes trailed over the graceful ships that approached in the distance, their sails full in the wind, though there was none to be felt up from the mountain.

"Anyone would remember such a sight, even those who are constrained in mortal flesh," Námo said softly as he joined Harry by the edge. "Though the light of the sun did not shine as yet, this is where your life began, here upon the highest peaks in the land of Valinor." He paused, looking into the depths. "Many Maiar came with us, from Outside, when the world was made. A few did not, and they entered into being in times of need. The Maiar are akin to the children of the mind of the Valar, just as they themselves are children of Eru's mind, and all share origins in the great music." He pointed to the tallest part of the cliff. "I had Manwë's blessing to use this place, Taniquetil, which is closest to the heavens in all of Arda. From here, I and my wife beseeched Ilúvatar. It is here, too, that I received my herald."

Harry looked over the edge with a barely constrained urge to yell out and see if there was an echo, to spread his arms and jump down the endless slopes, almost certain that he could sprout wings on the way down. There _was _something familiar here, something he couldn't quite understand, as if it was on the tip of his tongue, but wouldn't budge.

"No wonder I like flying," he said after a moment, stunned. His eyes roved over the mountains and the valleys below, and the long white beaches. He felt as if he should recognize this place, but he didn't, and in confusion he turned away. "If what you say is true, and I'm… this 'Maia', then what? I'm a wizard from Britain, now."

Námo gestured to the east, across the sea. "See there, the fleet that approaches? The ships you see come from the far lands, from sinking Beleriand, and the Great War of Wrath wherein Melkor was thrown down and defeated. A great victory was won, that is true. I have seen, however, that another great darkness will rise in his stead, and take root among the firstborn, the Elves, and among the Vala Aulë's children, the Dwarves. In time, even mortal Men will be swayed under this new evil's spell – and untold numbers will die. The Halls will be filled to overflowing."

He looked away tiredly, gazing over the vast mountain range that the Holy Mountain was only a part of. "I wished to send you to those shores as my herald, to deal out judgment in my name, but my efforts were destroyed before they had truly begun. There was a great struggle, both of power and mind, and Melkor was defeated in the end, but not without taking what he wanted." Námo reached out, and grasped Harry's shoulder. For a moment, it seemed as if all the world wanted to cram itself inside his head, and the Vala quickly released him, and Harry caught himself. "He never wished to harm me, knowing that I had many allies, but he knew all about vicarious punishment. Melkor threw you into exile before your task had begun, before you were more than a new soul, an uncorrupted spark of possibility that was still finding its way, preparing for the future. Since that day, the task remains the same as it always was, and I beseech you to take this task upon you once more. The corruptor must be found, and eradicated. It is not yet too late to stop great evil from gaining a foothold, an destroying all that we created."

Harry sighed, and was silent for a time, before he finally turned a little to face Námo. "You want me to go back with you. To save some place and time I don't know anything about. You want me to jump right back into a bloody war, just after I won the last one?" He narrowed his eyes. "With all due respect, I _have _a life already. I can't just run off and leave Ginny and all the others behind. Even if you are being completely truthful, I would be giving up… everything I know, for what sounds like a lot more pain and death. There are people here that I care about, that care about my survival. I can't just throw that away for some mystical mumbo-jumbo. Maybe you should have waited until I was old and crooked, instead?"

Námo sighed. "If I had not come now, you would never have considered the choice at all," he said sadly. "If I approached you when you were older, you would have forged ties that cannot be severed, even by me, and you would have closed the path yourself, inaction serving as your choice. I refuse to force this upon you, knowing how humans and Valar alike treasure freedom of will, and of action. It is here, and now, that your soul is most free, that you are capable of determining your own destiny. If you decline at this moment, then you would decline at any other, and my search was foolishness."

Harry nodded distractedly, but all he could think about was Ron, Hermione, Ginny - all the people he would be leaving just for something even crazier than wizards and magic. Right after the final victory. Could he even contemplate something like that without feeling sick to his stomach?

"You told me that you chose the cloak because it protected others from death, rather than just guarded yourself from it," Námo said "Against your great enemy, against your Dark Lord, you exemplified that sentiment in the most literal interpretation, by guarding the lives of your friends with your own, even unto death. What I ask of you is to protect those whom I call my children as well, the many peoples of Eru's creation, in an age where greater evils still makes their mark upon the lands. Many thousands or more could be spared, whole nations protected from harm. They too need their guardians."

Harry frowned. "So I should go with you to wherever you come from, and leave everyone here behind? What about Ron and Hermione? What about everyone else? What would happen to them?_"_

Námo raised an eyebrow. "That is a question I _can_ answer."

* * *

**Author's Note:** A HP/Tolkien crossover that takes elements from Silmarillion (obviously) though I don't intend to make it so opaque that non-readers are totally lost. Though Lord of the Rings characters do feature prominently, the story starts before the main Ring saga, with most of these being Elves that have been around for a while. E.g. Elrond, Galadriel, Glorfindel, Círdan, Celeborn, and so forth. (Also Gil-Galad.) Also appearing are various Maia characters of note, including the later Gandalf, Saruman, Radagast and so on.

No, I have not abandoned any stories. WaS is on an interlude now but will soon get a proper chapter again, TLN is being worked on but after a round of quick updates, this one takes a little longer. TWFE will take a bit, and the others are basically on hiatus until I can get a good grip on them again, but they are as of right now still active.

Hope you'll enjoy this one. :)


	2. Memoriam

**Chapter 2 – Memoriam **

Hermione stepped into the Headmaster's office on weary feet; any trepidation she might have felt was buried under far too much emotion to register as she tried to comprehend what had happened, down in the Great Hall. Her hands trembled still, though not as badly as before, and she steadied herself as she tried to squash her disgust at how relieved she was that Ron had survived, that she herself had survived. There were many that were not so lucky.

She should be downstairs, really, she knew that. Ron was there with his family, mourning one of their own. Fred Weasley had perished in the battle, and the Weasleys held vigil until he could be moved. The Great Hall was filled with bodies, now – it had been too horrible to stay there any longer, and she had left, considering who lay there at the end of the hall, hidden with a cloth like the others. _Harry_.

She _should_ be downstairs – but instead she was here, in Dumbledore's office. Hermione refused to consider it Snape's, after all the terrible things that happened in Hogwarts during their time away from the castle, and she was glad to note that the office was still recognizable, still held the myriad of faces in their portraits, string down on her. They were looking at her with worry, or pity.

"Miss Granger."

It was Dumbledore's portrait that had spoken, of course. She had expected him to be here, alongside all the others. He was the reason she had come here specifically, to this spot. He had a right to know, even as a shadow of his real self. Professor Dumbledore's portrait hung behind the chair, in between a few of his colleagues, looking at her with tired eyes that seemed to read the truth from her very face.

"It's over." Hermione sagged down against the desk. "It's all over."

"I have heard from the paintings down below. The message went around quite quickly," Dumbledore replied, subdued. "Harry – that brave, brave man – gave everything to end it, sacrificed more than I expected, than I could have expected." He sighed, and wiped painted tears from his beard. "He was victorious, but the price was too high."

"Now what?" Hermione whispered tiredly. "What do we do, now? Harry was always the one who took the lead, even if he was stubborn about it. What do we do–" She swallowed, and held in a sob. "He was going to be an Auror. He told me that. He was going to fix things."

Dumbledore nodded slowly, but he had no reply. A long silence fell.

"I want to ask M-McGonagall if we can bury him on the Hogwarts grounds, like you," Hermione said at last. "I think this was the closest place to home he ever had." She shivered as she considered such measures; it made the events of the past hours seem more real than she wanted them to. "I suppose he would have liked Godric's Hollow as well, next to his parents."

"I am certain Minerva would allow him to be placed here," Dumbledore said, glancing to the window. "And I could not wish for a better person to have a spot next to my own. He was better than I ever tried to be, I believe." He sighed. "Ah, I underestimated him even to the end..."

Hermione sighed. "I still can't grasp what happened. Harry appeared, as if from nowhere, but nobody's found any invisibility cloak, anywhere. Then he fought with someone else's wand, like it was his own." She reached into her pocket, and showed it. "It's Draco Malfoy's wand. He used _Expelliarmus _against Voldemort's Killing Curse – and it _worked._"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he saw the battered wand, and a weak grin appeared as he nodded in recognition. "He took Tom's wand in their fight, then?"

"Nobody's found the Elder Wand yet," Hermione admitted haltingly. "Perhaps it was destroyed in the explosion of spells, but we won't know until everyone's recovered." She sighed. "Perhaps it is better that way, really. It was too powerful by half."

Dumbledore smiled slightly. "I see. No cloak, and no wand. No stone either, I imagine. They've gone with their master, perhaps?" he mused softly. "Yes, that fits quite well. The Master who united them is the one who takes them back home." He sighed. "I hope that what lies beyond is everything he could wish for. He deserves it."

* * *

Harry almost dropped to his knees as the Headmaster's office faded, and he realized he was in the Great Hall, standing a few feet from his own collapsed body, crumpled just where he had stood before; he was covered by a white cloth, like many of the others. Ginny was by his side, tears streaming from her eyes as she looked around the hall, and the many dots of white. Námo stood there as well, watching.

"What was _that?"_ Harry cried, aghast. "I saw – Hermione and the Headmaster…"

Námo looked down at Ginny sadly, his armour glittering brightly in the early sun that shone into the hall. "What you saw, was a glimpse of the future, in the way that I see it. A thread of what might be. I apologize if it was… uncomfortable. Mortals are quite attached to their physical form, I know." Námo looked out across the hall, where many people were tending to the wounded, and moving the dead to the sides with careful reverence. Nobody seemed to give Voldemort's corpse any mind, and it still lay there like a puppet with its wires cut, its scarlet eyes blind.

Hagrid leaned over Harry's own body, and slowly lifted it. He looked frail and tiny in those huge hands, and most definitely dead, with glazed-over eyes set over a faint smile. "I showed what I saw, here where the dark forces have little influence on me. Few visions are as strong in my own day, for there is much resistance from the enemy and his servants, and many who would counteract me." He frowned darkly. "I felt your unease at your incorporeal state. If you wish, you may see from the outside, though some aspects of experience may be lost."

"I'd rather stay like this, thanks. It has to be better than _that _feeling," Harry said, shivering. For a while, he had been disembodied, nothing but consciousness that traveled by thought. It was a bizarre feeling, and one that set his teeth on edge, though he had none at the time. It had felt like he could vanish at any moment, like there was nothing that kept him bound together, nothing that kept him from vanishing to the four winds when his concentration faltered, slipping into eternal unsconsciousness. "Is this all really happening?" Harry asked. "Either I'm some ghost flying around, or I'm not. Why all this? Shouldn't I be moving, you know, on? Or going back, if I'm not really dead?" He shuddered. "It's... this is _wrong.__"_

"The melody of existence is filled with ambiguities. It's not always so clear," Námo murmured. "This is what will be, should you leave with me to Valinor, and take up the position that was made for you. It is what would happen in the event of your demise. This is an illustration of a truth that you must know, before you choose where to go. Such sights were never meant for mortal races, and the strain on your person is considerable... but you will survive, should you choose to."

Harry started as Hagrid moved off, followed by many of the others, and he carried Harry's body with him. He followed, and for a time no words were shared between him and Námo, as they simply watched the destruction and terror make way for a profound sadness. Dozens of grieving wizards and witches, apparating in from elsewhere in the country, came to find their relatives. Some cried in relief as their children made their way outside. Others sat quietly, or cried in grief.

Hours seemed to pass in moments, and then they turned to days. Harry followed many wizards and witches who gathered together as they came to terms with the death of Voldemort, half-celebrating and half-mourning. Mostly he sought out his friends, glad that he could not quite understand what they were saying, as silence pervaded everything, some part of the experience lost while he moved among them in his own body, or what passed for it. He would have liked to hear their voices again, but he managed.

Hermione and Ron sought solace with each other, and Ginny with her family, and especially with George, who was inconsolable. Harry even saw Malfoy with his parents, and he could almost forget his father's transgressions when the two hugged as if they had not seen each other for years, as if all propriety could go right out the window. For a moment, at least, it seemed like they were as relieved as anyone that Voldemort had gone, that the nightmare was over.

Luna, Neville and many of the other DA members held their own little ceremony, as he had found, to commemorate the fallen. Dozens of Patronuses of every shape and size patrolled the borders of the Hogwarts Grounds, their luminous glow giving everything an eerie quality, like a procession of ghosts.

After two long days, all of the students gathered together again, all of them, to say their last goodbyes. They were burying the one who had finally ended things, and Harry could barely keep himself from running away, either from the intense feeling of wrongness, or the looks on his friends' faces. They were burying _him, _on Hogwarts ground, not far from where Professor Dumbledore's tomb stood, gleaming, as Hermione wanted.

"How can I do this to them?" Harry asked desperately. "What is this supposed to show me? It's horrifying!"

Námo nodded. "Of course it is. It would be regardless of your presence, in the aftermath of any war. Mourning the dead is natural, and you were not the only one who fell here. Many here do not get the chance at all to return to life," he said. "These people grieve for the right reasons. Your friends show that they truly love you, care for you. Yet, as important as this is the realization that Death cannot dominate one's life, and people must continue on, despite loss and grief. This is what I have learned from the race of Men, from the Edain, for the Eldar scarcely consider what death means, and it is a lesson I treasure. This is the beginning of understanding death, not the end of it."

"The Eldar?" Harry inquired.

Námo glanced to him, eyes twinkling not unlike Dumbledore's used to. "I speak of the Elves of old, those that have long since left in this age, forgotten. Immortal as they are, only the wounds of battle might slay them. Even then, their spirits continue to my halls, to live once more." He turned away and gestured to a pair of bewildered, crying Muggles, brought to the castle with the help of wizards to tend to their Muggleborn daughter, who was killed by a Death Eater. They looked out of place in terms of their clothing, but their grief was universally understood. "Humans have a far better understanding than the Eldar do, about the consequences of mortality.."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked. "Why would you say that?"

"It is mortal Men who know that their death is the end, that they will not be reborn," Námo replied slowly. "They grieve for the deceased, and remember them, but they know also that life must end, and that it must continue for those who survive." He suddenly looked as ancient as Harry remembered from those first moments of incredibly presence. "I show you here what happens when you die. You would leave as a hero. These people will remember that side of you forever, after the anger of injustice of the moment fades. Many will teach their children about this war, and tell them of Harry Potter, and of incredible bravery in the face of death. One does not truly die unless he is forgotten, and I do not believe you would be."

The world blurred and the faces of his friends were the last to vanish. The world once more solidified as a ramshackle little house, homely and comfortable, with a little fire burning in the hearth. Harry turned, and almost tripped when an older Hermione entered through the door, her hair tied up in a neat bun while she walked through to the kitchen with a hot sizzling pan in her hands that was steaming without a flame to heat it. She smiled warmly as she glanced through the door across from Harry, and a little child stood there, wobbling on her feet, her red locks almost obscuring her eyes.

"What's the child's name?" Harry asked softly.

"The little one is Rose," Námo answered. "They have another child at this time, a young boy named Hugo."

"So they do get married," Harry said, and he nodded confidently. "They put up with each other for seven years; I guess they can't give it up now. The Weasley curse of red hair continues as well, it seems."

Hermione turned towards Harry, and for a moment he thought she saw him, as she straightened. Then, stepping right through him as he entered from right behind Harry, Ron walked over to her, patting the little bundle that leaked tears against his shoulder. The tiny toddler, certainly less than a year old, who was looking around with curiosity, and caught Harry's eye for a moment. Ron looked older, definitely more so than Hermione, and he gave her a quick peck on the cheek before he set down the child in a little chair, which instantly resized itself to match her.

"I see," Harry said as Hermione retrieved some scones from the cupboard. "They have their own little family." He smiled warmly. "That's good. That's very good."

The kitchen evaporated, along with the new Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Diagon Alley formed next, springing out of nothingness fully formed. Harry saw dozens of little familiar shops, Gringotts in the distance, and the Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes shop on the corner, larger than ever. Ron was there, holding merchandise and showing it to people who passed by, while George loudly proclaimed their awesome quality, though Harry could barely hear it. Hundreds populated the street, and Harry dodged aside when some came too close, feeling silly when he knew they would just pass through him. He backed into some kind of statue in the middle of the road – and paused. He knew Diagon Alley; there was no statue here. Suddenly worried, he turned around.

There, standing over the crumpled form of what appeared to be a snake in a robe, was a statue of him, with his round glasses and lightning-bolt scar, holding his wand outstretched towards the sky.

"Oh, they wouldn't!" Harry said in a rush, and he ran to the front of it. There was a large plaque, and Harry groaned as he read it to himself.

_HARRY POTTER  
1981 – 1998  
Defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort. Twice.  
Survived the Killing Curse. Twice.  
Posthumously won an Order of Merlin, First Class. Once._

"They actually did it. They built me a bloody _statue_," Harry exclaimed incredulously. "In the middle of Diagon Alley, no less, where thousands of people pass it! What were they thinking? Next they'll put me in the bloody Ministry fountain!"

"You are represented there as well," Námo observed coolly, to Harry's incredulous expression. "You must understand that you defeated the greatest fear that many people had, Harry. In your death, you became a martyr, and such a thing has consequences. Knowing you gave your life in the last struggle, many people realized that they had been misjudging you. Some felt like they had done you a disservice, and acted upon it, and yet more so were spurred into agreement through gratitude. The clamour to build a statue to commemorate your victory was deafening. You became a symbol of courage to them."

"I'm not sure I want something like that," Harry said uneasily. "It's creepy."

"Many of the people most deserving of fame do not wish for it," Námo said easily. "Some who have it, do not deserve it. It is up to the people themselves to decide who they look up to. Regardless, I think you should be proud that you are such a potent example." He turned, and the street disappeared. "These are some of the things I could show you, to help you realize that your actions have already had great consequences, and that most people will thrive due to you, regardless of your continued presence. But, I think we both know what you truly wish to know."

Harry was back at his grave, standing before the black stone that had been placed not far from Dumbledore's tomb. The trees were losing their leaves in a beautiful shower of colour as Harry saw carriages in the distance, travelling from the castle moat towards the train station in Hogsmeade.

"This is the day that the students go home from the school," Námo explained. "Eight years have passed after your demise. Ginevra Weasley could make an important choice on this day, should this future come to be. It is why she came here, in fact."

There, standing in the dirt patch in front of the tomb, on well-trodden soil, was Ginny. Her long red hair shimmered in the sunlight as she touched the stone reverently, and she smiled slightly as she placed down a bouquet of flowers - lilies. She seemed even prettier than when he had last seen her.

"She spoke little about you for some time, unwilling to let you go," Námo observed. "Your friends coaxed her out of her shell, but it would take nearly three years before they convinced her that life and love go on, even without you. That she should keep living." He looked sadly at Ginny.

"Three _years_?!" Harry asked, aghast. Then the meaning of the words registered, and he looked back at her. "You mean... She's… with someone again, isn't she?" he asked, and he stifled the feeling of betrayal that loomed. They had not truly been together anymore, not after his sixth year, but he was certain that after Voldemort was dead, they would get another chance. If he were dead – of course she would move on, eventually. It made sense, but it _hurt_."Who is it?" he asked sharply.

"Does that matter?" Námo asked enigmatically.

Harry sighed, and stifled his wish to know who Ginny could end up with except him. "I guess not." He stepped forward, and reached out to Ginny's cheek. "Is she happy, at least?" He paused, and answered his own question. "Well, of course she is. Ginny wouldn't settle for anything less than that."

Námo hesitated for a moment, but then spoke. "Should this time come to pass, their first child will be born three years from this moment. They call him Harry, in your honour. Ginevra becomes a Quidditch player, and after she retires she writes for the Daily Prophet, in the Sports section. Every year, on your birthday, she will publish one of her memories of you, to share with the world. She will also win one of the first Wizarding High Awards for Literary Excellence, instated by Hermione Granger."

"I'm glad to see that Hermione's still bad with acronyms," Harry observed softly, and he reached out again, brushing a finger across Ginny's cheek as she looked at his grave. He rose, and sighed. "Can you guarantee that they will all be safe? Can you make sure that they won't be harmed if I'm gone?"

"None can truly guarantee such things," Námo said. "I can tell you, at least, that of the friends you know best, I see long lives. In time, you may yet meet them all again, of course. There _are_ advantages to my station."

Harry nodded. "Could I leave a message, just in case?"

Námo's eyes glittered. "I think you already did."

Ginny touched her cheek, right where Harry had touched it, and tears appeared in her eyes as she looked down on the tomb with a warm smile, mouthing 'I miss you'. Harry reached out to give her one last hug. There were no words, but it was enough. Then, soundlessly, the world vanished into whiteness once more, and Harry reluctantly left her behind.

"It's good to know that things will go well, even without me," Harry said after a while, back in the whiteness. He frowned, then, turning to Námo. "Except, you're not really showing me everything, are you? You're choosing what you want to show me, hoping that with these images, you can convince me to go with you. You're intentionally skewing what I see." Harry glowered. "Is that fair?"

Námo looked weary at that. "What do you wish to see, then?"

Harry did not have to think about it, not after what he had just seen. "You showed me a world without me - a world that still turns. That is only one side of the picture, though. You avoided mentioning the other half. Tell me, what would happen if I stayed, if I remained here? What if I chose to go back to my body, and live out my life?"

With a deep sadness, something that Harry could swear was the pain of loss, Námo nodded. "You have the right to see this, too." A fresh breeze stirred up, carrying the sea's scent with it.

* * *

Harry stood on soft sand, by a small beach house he did not recognize, though it reminded him of Shell Cottage. The wind that rolled in from the sea was warm, comfortable, and the cloudless sky under an evening sun felt warm on his skin. He was not alone.

A white-haired man sat upon the house's porch, wiggling to get better seating in his comfortable chair. He held a nice glass of quality fire whiskey in his hand, and he was reading the latest Prophet, sniffing at its contents.

"What am I looking at?" Harry asked, and Námo was there, looking remarkably out of place, in his bright armour.

"The man is you," Námo said morosely, and Harry blinked in surprise. "Many years in your future. This is as things would be, should you choose your old existence, and mortality."

The old man stirred. "Looks like the third nice birthday in a row," he said lightly, and the younger Harry started in surprise. "Warm for the time of year, but that's been the way of things, I suppose..." He sipped from his glass, and seemed to enjoy the sharp tingly sensation as his drink went down.

"It might rain in the night," a second voice said. Harry glanced up at the wall, where it had come from, and spotted a small painting depicting a red-haired woman in her fifties, crossing her arms as she looked down imperiously. Suddenly, he realized who it was. _Ginny._

"So, you're talking again?" The old man - the old Harry - turned to the painting with an amused smile.

Ginny Weasley's painting crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. "You know why I'm not as talkative as you'd like, Harry James Potter."

The old Harry scowled. "Oy, please don't get me back into the metaphysics of enchanted paintings and personalities, and how you're not really you," he replied. "The last time that Hermione got talking about that, we were up all night, remember? I've had enough of that."

"Well, she's right, you know."

"Yes, yes, you women are always right," the old man joked, and he stared out over the beach with a smile. "Albus said he might drop by, and I'm sure that James and Lily will do so tomorrow. I trust they'll know to prod me from my sleep, though, if I end up taking a nap. It feels like a lazy afternoon, you know."

Harry turned to Námo. "He's talking about Dumbledore? Mum and dad? What...?" The Vala did not answer.

"Don't know if the grandkids are coming too, but we'll see." The old Harry took a sip, and smacked his lips contentedly as Ginny looked on with a grimace. "Well, it is exactly a century since I found out about magic – lots of interesting people are coming by, you know. Teddy's bringing a bunch of friends, Hermione and Rose will visit, and even Scorpius' son is attending, which I count as a small miracle." He frowned. "I forgot the kid's name – something equally ridiculous to the names of his forefathers, I'm sure. Oh, Luna and Neville will be there with their families. It'll be like old times."

"At least you're talking to actual people," the painted Ginny said wryly. "I was afraid you'd lock yourself up behind these doors. I mean, I've always been the one to drag you out from the house, and now it's a bit more difficult." She gestured to herself. "I'm sure if I was there in the flesh, I'd tug you out the door by your ear."

"They're my children," the younger Harry breathed in understanding, and wonder. "He - I - mentioned _grandchildren,_ even!"

"This is a possibility, yes," Námo said with a nod. "You would live a long life as a wizard, should you choose to go back. Even unknowing, your spirit is strong, and will maintain your body into this advanced age."

The old Harry smiled warmly as he spoke up again. "It's unfair, you know. You got all that youth back in your picture, and I'm still finding new wrinkles in uncomfortable places, and have to deal with all these annoyances. I don't know why nobody ever thought to make a spell that doesn't feel like sandpaper when it cleans your-"

"Harry, be civilized!"

"It's not like anyone's listening!" he exclaimed. "I kind of like that you're more talkative again, even if it's technically not quite _you. _Yes, I know, sore topic." He winked. "You know, if Fred's painting can make great gags and run a joke shop, I'm pretty sure that you count as close enough."

"You really care about this, don't you?" Ginny said softly. "You could call the other me, you know. You know where you could find that Resurrection Stone, if you really wanted to find it. The real me might be able to help…"

Harry sighed. "Now that would be taunting fate, don't you think? Dragging a lost love back from the dead? I might as well call myself Cadmus Peverell and be done with it!" He looked at Ginny's painting again, and smiled. The expression faltered after a moment, as confusion took hold. He twitched, grasped for his chest, and then his eyes slid closed. There had not even been a sound. Without a fuss, or even a fanfare, he collapsed onto the table.

Námo said nothing as the world faded - but Harry got the message, loud and clear.

* * *

Things were silent, for a long time. Námo waited, arms crossed, patient. Harry considered what he had seen - and what it meant. Without him, things would continue well enough - an uncomfortable realization, but everyone had an inflated sense of how important they were, he supposed. If he stayed, he would have what appeared to be a very good life - and a long one too, filled with children and love. By that alone, the choice was easy, practically made for him already. Yet, that rang false. Námo seemed to be under the impression that the choice was difficult, or at least more than a triviality. It made no sense for him to present something that was not even a dilemma, whether he was lying or not. The only conclusion Harry could come to was an unpalatable one. He was missing something big. He had to be working from a position of ignorance, perhaps intentionally on Námo's part.

If all he had to decide was whether or not he'd like to keep Ginny happy, to have children, a family of his own - then this was not a choice at all. Nobody would dismiss those things, least of all him. That meant there were strings attached, ones that he wasn't seeing, and Námo was keeping them from him. Perhaps it was malicious: The gold-clad figure could be pressuring him into a decision, to suit his own ends. Alternatively, he was being kind, by not giving him the full picture.

It took him a moment to formulate a question from his suspicions. "What's the bad side, here? What's the catch? Tell me." Granted, it wasn't very eloquent, but Námo seemed to understand what he meant. The Vala grimaced, and was silent for a long time. Harry considered that reaction, and the expression on the Vala's face shattered his earlier suspicion. He had assumed questionable intent, manipulation, perhaps malicious trickery. But, maybe this was something else.

Finally Námo spoke, and he sounded very weary. "Very well. In truth, my age is threatened, and the Valar do not have the authority that they once had to influence what happens in much of the world. Dark forces work against us, and the Eldar themselves have independent authority, as the children of Eru himself. If you should choose to stay in this age, then no herald of mine shall cross the seas to prevent what may occur, not for a very long time. There are too many mysteries, too much darkness, for me to know what might happen. But it shall be terrible, regardless."

Harry narrowed his eyes, and nodded, as he realized Námo's game. "I think I understand now. If I want my happiness, my full life, then it requires a sacrifice, doesn't it? A blood sacrifice. That's what you really mean, when you talk about darkness. You want me to choose between my own life, or the lives of many others." He gestured vaguely. "To live a long life as a wizard, or to die as one, and leave to that other place."

"None would blame you for your choice," Námo said.

"_I would_," Harry snapped, and he looked away. "I would. The world that's equally good for everyone else except me, that's what you showed me first. It's a good future. What you're telling me is the difference between _that_, and what you showed me last - my own happiness - would cost the lives of people who didn't even know I held them in my palm, who were crushed without awareness that there was someone there who could have saved them. That's... I'd be a _monster_ if I did that. Even worse, I wouldn't even know, would I?"

Námo refused to meet Harry's eyes, and he knew he was right. He paced back and forth, then stopped before the Vala, looking up at the towering figure with an icy expression. "I thought you were trying to trap me, when you showed me that the future would be safe without me, that it would all be good, so that I wouldn't feel the need to go back. I thought you were luring me with you, trying to keep me from realizing what I'd lose if I did." He frowned. "But, I realize now, you were trying to spare me. Isn't that right? Trying to prevent me from understanding the choice that was presented to me, so that I would pick what is in my best interest, without second thoughts. When I asked you to show me what would happen if I stayed, you showed your hand. You could have showed me the press harassing me, heated arguments with Ginny, people blaming me for their relatives deaths, so many terrible things. I'm sure there would be enough to work with in my life - just my luck. But you showed me a good world, instead. Perhaps a future even more wonderful than the one without me."

"I showed you only the truth." Námo snapped.

"Yes, I believe you," Harry said, and he smiled sadly. "But... it was not the whole truth, was it? When I asked you a question that you knew had a terrible answer, you tried to spare me from pain by avoiding the real issue. You showed me the best of that future, since you knew that was what I was looking for. I realized your bias, then, and it was not the one that I expected." He narrowed his eyes. "You want me to go with you, that was clear from the beginning, but it is not your primary reason for being here, for approaching me, is it?"

"It is." Námo noted.

"Technically, I'm sure it is. But unless I'm mistaken, you could have dragged me along by force," Harry responded. "You presented to me only those things which would keep me here - the good times, the wonderful future I might have, children and grandchildren, happiness. You avoided delving into the bad sides of either future. Why? I think I know." He shook his head. "The way you spoke about me, earlier - I have never really had parents, but it's how I imagine they would speak. Herald or son, I think it's semantics to you - right?"

Námo stayed silent, but his eyes flashed with a fire of hope that stole his breath away. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you value my life, or my choices, over those of others," Harry said at last. The Vala sighed, and Harry knew he had been correct. "Námo - If you really care enough about me, even without knowing me, that you would take the worst on your conscience just to avoid burdening me with its weight, then you care enough to tell the truth. The whole truth. What is the price for my happiness?"

Námo didn't answer in words, but the white bled to red, and then to eerie brown. It took Harry a moment to realize that he was looking at the sky. They were a strange burnt orange, sickly-looking, and fire rained down from above, crashing through the smog. There were vast infernos in all directions. He stood in water - though it was stained red. Harry shuddered as he realized there were bodies, everywhere. Strange faces looked up at him with empty eyes - some with pointed features, and similar ears, and others with brutish grimaces, more animal than man. There were banners, ripped to shreds, and above all a stench of decay.

"This... _this? _What happened here...?" Harry asked, gagging.

Námo looked sullenly over the massacre. "This will be called Dagorlad. The Plain of Battle. What you see here is the clearest image I have foreseen of the days to come in my own age, and among the most disturbing. The dark powers limit what I can see with certainty, at least where they are strong, but they could not prevent this image from coming to me. This doom." He gazed at Harry briefly. "The fire you see comes from great volcanoes, still sleeping in my day, that will be awoken to wreak havoc upon men's convictions. Because here, Men and Elves will fight together on the battlefield, as they did in the War of Wrath. Here they will be struck down by the corrupt Orcs - and fouler things."

Harry swallowed, trying to ignore the horrible smells as he took in the devastation. It was far worse than he expected - on a scale that Wizarding conflicts had never reached, as far as he knew. Voldemort had only ever had a small group of followers - a few dozen, maybe a few hundred in his first reign. There lay so many dead within his sight, if not more so, and the plains stretched out into the distance, towards the dark mountains that loomed ahead.

Even as he did so, a terrible feeling stirred within him, as if the sickness of the place reached out to him, clawed at him with jagged tentacles, ready to drag him under. The monstrous scale of the desolation seemed to seep through from far beyond this single battlefield, and he shivered involuntarily. He realized that whatever he was feeling now, however horrible, it was only a pale imitation of what it would really be like, if this came to pass. He could feel the corruption in the soil, the despair in the dying and the dead, practically screaming out into the world around it. He turned away in revulsion.

"The earth below our feet will remember this moment," Námo said with certainty, as he crouched down and touched a dead plant, crushed and broken. "Men say that the field does not remember what stands upon it, but I disagree. This was a simple plain before this battle, a vast domain of horses and their riders. After the war that this signifies, it won't be. Not anymore. Nothing clean will grow here, not with so much blood spilt, with orc corruption staining it. Ponds of poisonous slick and mounds of scorched earth will be all that remain. This will be a dead marsh."

"I know," Harry said with a certainty he could not place. He stared up at the orange-tinted clouds, swirling violently as ash and dust descended from them. "I can stop this?" he asked, sickened, and he shivered. "I only stopped one man, Námo. Even then, it was not my power that stopped him, and you know it. What can I do against anything of this magnitude?"

"Power does not solve all, or even most problems. Isn't that right?" Námo asked, and a smile ghosted across his lips. "That is the second time I use your own words against you, countering much the same argument. It seems to be something that you are struggling with. Are you certain that it is the cloak that symbolizes you, rather than the wand? It seems to resonate with you."

"No... no." Harry frowned at his revulsion, and tried to reason why he felt that way. "That wand would just be the easy answer." His eyes widened then, and he looked at Námo in realization. "That's it, isn't it? That's what this has been all about, right? To return to life, to fulfill my dreams, that's the easy choice. It's easy to know what will happen, when you have already shown me some, and to follow the set path." He paused for a long time. "Did Professor Dumbledore know about this?" He asked softly. "He said it would come down to a choice. One choice would be easy, and I know which one that is. The other would then be... the right one. I know it is."

Námo looked on impassively as Harry shivered. "It's the same," he continued. "This is the same choice I already made twice, this very day. I went into the Forbidden Forest, knowing that I was heading to my death, so I could protect my friends. Then I chose to come back, to finish it, to protect everyone from Voldemort. And now - you're asking me to choose again, to sacrifice myself for a third time, for the same reasons." He sighed. "It seems that fate is not done with me yet."

Everything slipped away from Harry as he made his decision, as he realized what it meant on every level, even ones that he had barely conceived. Námo was gone, and whatever was beyond this white place, this waystation, was closing in quickly, was enveloping him in its comforting glow. Perhaps his train was coming, as Dumbledore had said. Harry wished dearly that Ginny and all the others would forgive him for what she would lose. That she would not blame him for dying on her, that some parts of the future would never come to be. And at the same time, some part of him rejoiced, burst forward from within with a power that burned like the sun, that seared his insides.

Harry realized now what Námo had meant, when he said this was the only moment he could have agreed to give up such important things, just as they were within his grasp. Before, he had been bound already, destined to kill Voldemort. After this, he would be bound to Ginny, and to his children, his family. They did not exist yet, but he knew that they would mean far too much to him to abandon them, once they did. Right now, right here, he was at his most free.

And he had made the right choice.

Death stole him away.


	3. Interlude - Lindalë

**Interlude - Lindalë**

All was darkness. And silence.

There was neither sight, nor feeling, nor a sense of direction. Existence itself was boiled down to bare essentials, with consciousness the only thing that truly persisted at all, even as it had no breath to take, no body to move, no ground to stand upon. The nothingness was peaceful, in its own way. For a long time there was naught besides that peace, and the sleep of the dead.

In the void floated a being, unaware that it was doing so, without understanding what it was, or had been. There was no reckoning of time, nothing to measure against, and it could have been seconds or eons since it had come here, since it had a form, or thoughts of its own. There was only an empty timelessness.

That which woke the remnant to a semblance of existence, which revived it from thoughtlessness, was not actually _something _at all. It was, in fact, a lack of something. The iota of soul did not mind the darkness of being sightless, or the shapelessness of being bodiless; what made it restless was the absence of _sound, _the all-pervading silence that seemed far more pressing than all the others, far more _wrong_. There had to be more than the soundless void, without even the blood pounding behind one's ears to fill it in, something fundamental was _missing_. Far more than something to see, or to touch, the being craved for something to hear.

That little annoyance, that little niggling idea, stirred it into activity, into full wakefulness. Like an echo, there followed awareness of itself, of the dark, of confinement. Slowly, gathering bits and pieces of themselves from the long dark, memories coalesced, gathered together in a process that felt completely alien, and yet completely familiar. An identity reformed, slowly. The being found its name, its origin again. _His _origin. Harry - that was his name. But not his only name.

The silence pressed in on him, the isolation quickly turning his resting place from peaceful to lonely. For a time, perhaps a long time, he gave in to panic, and he tried to cry out in despari, though nobody answered the pleas, and they only echoed in his head before they vanished, and silence returned. He realized how small he was, how useless he was, and he hated it. He tried to move, speak, anything, just to prove that he still existed enough to affect the world around him. There was nothing, nobody. With his instincts failing him, Harry forced himself to focus, to let a more analytical side of him take over, for fear of falling again into that near-insanity. He could not alter the emptiness, that was true, but he could alter his own perception of it: He had, after all, his memories. Perhaps he could fill the silence with something, while he figured out where he was.

The darkness brought back memories of his little cupboard under the stairs, riddled with the spiders that he had considered his only companions, back when the Dursleys were all too fond of being rid of him for a while. At night, he imagined unbelievable things, like a long lost family member come to rescue him, but they had never come. He scarcely knew _why _he was thinking back on those days, but out of need, out of desperation, he imagined himself back behind that little locked door, arms locked around his knees as he stared at the little lines of light that curled around the edges. Things felt a little more natural that way, more famliar.

He remembered a little song that he had heard from that cupboard. It was the first tune that came to mind, and perhaps the first he had ever heard, before he could remember leaving the Dursleys' home at all. It was a nursery rhyme, sung by Aunt Petunia, very softly, as she put Dudley to bed. At the time, he had imagined it was sung for him too, and he had hummed along with his Aunt, who could hold a tune remarkably well. He imagined the same now, and the soundlessness within him retreated before it - though Petunia was replaced in his memory by his mother, Lily, as he had seen her in pictures. The music seemed to echo around in his mind, turning into interesting variations of itself, and Harry relaxed a little as his panic finally subsided.

He realized now, with a feeling of melancholy, what had happened to him, as his memories had finally stopped bouncing around inside his mind. He was dead. The whole affair had been too quick to process, too sudden to study, too merciless to fight. The darkness had washed over him like a tide, and he had been drawn with it, down, down, down into senseless oblivion. It was a certain kind of amusing, really, that the so-called 'Master of Death' would know so little of his own domain before it overtook him. It had not been threatening, as he had half-expected, but almost - welcoming, in a way.

His little mental hymn turned to something a little more interesting and complex as Harry thought of Námo, and that moment he had decided to go with the self-proclaimed god, despite knowing what he would lose in the exchange. He had really made up his mind earlier, the moment he understood Námo's attempt to spare him from the real choice, but it had taken him a while to formulate his instinct into words. Whatever had kept him whole, coherent, had vanished after that in a moment of vertigo, when his last resistance had dropped. He still existed, true, but he could say little more about himself. He just _was. _All his previous experiences had only taken him to the edge of death, to a way station, never across it into the undiscovered country that everyone visited in the end. Perhaps he had simply not figured out how to understand it yet, and that's why it was this way. Perhaps Death, too, was a lesson.

For a sickening instant, Harry feared he was in a coma, unconscious and insensible on some hospital bed, drooling his last days away. He forced his thoughts away from those things, knowing his predicament was real, just as he had been sure of the reality of Námo, even as the unbelievable gold-clad figure seemed to hail from his strangest dreams, defying what he thought he knew. Perhaps that man had been telling the truth, about Harry himself originally coming from that impossibly tall mountain, in that luminescent land, or perhaps from even before it existed. Perhaps he had dreamt about it before, because he had recognized it. It was the land the land of dreams he imagined when he heard the lullaby from his safe haven under the stairs.

The self-proclaimed Vala had spoken of spiritual beings, of angels and archangels, though he used other words for them, and he had spoken of others like himself, with unshakeable confidence. And then Námo had told him that Harry himself was one of them. That he was an angel with clipped wings, a trapped spirit, caught in mortality as a fly in a web. The idea was bizarre, but he had thought the same of magic, once. To manipulate reality with words and intentions, it was considered impossible, and yet he knew it to be true. He knew the same of life after death, since he had held the Resurrection Stone within his hand, had spoken with the long dead. From there, were angels such a large step?

Was he not a bodiless being, even at this moment? A creature of thought alone, existing after his physical body had long since been buried? Wasn't he already a being like those Námo had described? Suddenly, Harry understood. He _was. _He had been all along, even as regular old Harry Potter, but something prevented him from realizing it, from breaking free of the physical body that he had inhabited. Whatever it meant to be an 'angel', he had already made that transition. That is why he was here, in the darkness, rather than with Dumbledore and the others, in the place where the dead went. He was heading somewhere different, now.

He only knew what it was like to be a human, how to live with a mind that was in control of its physical body. He had no idea how angels were even _supposed _to work, no previous experience that could help him there, nor an instinct that could guide him, at least none that had awakened as yet. He knew that Námo had been assisting him before, when he had briefly released his form, before Harry had asked him to return it to him. It had been intensely uncomfortable to be like that at the time, but it seemed almost natural now that he had found a way to stave off the silence. Perhaps it really _was _more natural, now? Was formlessness something he should get used to?

As Harry tried to open himself to any new experiences in the wake of his realization, something changed. Perhaps it was his new understanding of the situation, or his attempts to find a way out, but there was a shift in response to his intent. Not sight, or sound, or smell, nor even feeling, it seemed, but a sensation that he could not quite describe. It was sort of like a presence, he thought, something infinitely vast that was just out of reach, so close that had he a form, he might have touched it. He grasped for it with thought alone, having nothing else to use, and imagined himself upon his broom, racing after the snitch. He reached out his arm, imagining catching the fluttery object, and closed his fist.

Existence rushed back in as a torrent of deafening noise, drowning out Harry's fleeting thoughts of awe until he was nothing more than a listener. Harry's own melodious humming, already becoming instinctual, was joined by a far greater music from outside him, complementing the meaningless melody and turning it into a magnificent symphony. The intensity of the music swept Harry away on its wild meanderings, sometimes loud and brutal with pompous drums and screeching whistles, sometimes soft like a whistle, and filled with a graceful wonder that stole his breath away. Everything vanished into the music, and it seemed as if long-held breath was let free in endless relief.

Harry Potter passed on. And he was reborn.


	4. First Born

**Chapter 3 – First Born**

Ancient things moved in the world before even the Ainur entered into it; faceless and thoughtless things, forces of nature in an age when not even the continents were in their familiar shapes and places, when growth and change and order were absent. These were the earliest of days, when the foundations of Arda were freshly laid down. And though these eldest of things lived, they had no plan or reason, and nothing moved.

It was in that silence, the silence of waiting, that many Ainur entered from Outside, consisting of the mighty Valar and their lesser kin, the Maiar. With them came change, and they formed and shaped Arda into something they preferred, something orderly and understandable, taking their dominion over its many facets with Eru Ilúvatar's permission and blessing. It was in the strange wastes, though, the ones that were yet unexplored, that the Firstborn drew their first breath and came alive.

These Firstborn were Children of the One in a way that the Ainur, aspects of his very being, splinters of his thought, could never be. Called Elves in later years by the races of men, they were a different kind of life than the Ainur themselves, and the Valar rejoiced in what Eru had made. In the early days of Arda, the world, these first children of Ilúvatar woke at the lake Cuiviénen, and they gazed upon the stars that the Lady Varda of the Valar created for them. They were ignorant of the workings of the world, but deeply connected to it.

The Valar discovered these beings, and offered them a choice. Far to the west, across the sea, the Ainur had their own realm of Valinor, a land of their own making. Light shone there freely. Oromë, the Hunter of the Valar, offered the Firstborn to join him in the long trek to the western coast. There they could sail to the Uttermost West, and live forever in wonder and bliss among the spirits. Those who left with him were afterwards called the Eldar, or the People of the Stars; those that did not, that chose to stay in darkness, were the Refusers.

Three clans of the Eldar travelled west, following the Valar into the unknown, each after their chosen leader. The Vanyar, the Noldor, and the Teleri. Many of the last group stayed in MIddle-Earth, settling down along the way as the Silvan, the Wood-Elves and as the Sindar, the Grey-Elves. Most reached the hallowed shores across the sea.

The shores of Valinor, the Undying Lands, the Uttermost West. The land had many names, as did its inhabitants. Built upon the great continent of Aman, separated from Middle-Earth by a gargantuan ocean, it was home to most of the Ainur, the divine beings who came into the world from before time began.

It was for the Eldar's sake, for those who still lived away from the Undying Lands, that the little ship sailed away from those hallowed lands with its white sail billowing in the eastern wind.

Varwë of the Maiar stood upon the stern and looked back to the land of Valinor, aware that he would not see it again for a long time - perhaps a _very _long time. He already longed to return to those retreating shores, to the white sands and the huge mountains that pierced the clouds high above, their impossibly steep sides reflecting the sunlight and making them almost white in the afternoon sun. Yet, he had a task to fulfill, and he could not stay sheltered in that place forever. The Eldar, Dwarves and Men of Middle-Earth, the Children of Ilúvatar, needed his help.

The Maia had many names now, and he wondered if he would gain more in time. Varwë was the oldest of them all, older than sun and moon, than the air that he breathed, than the very sea upon which he sailed. Harry Potter was very recent in comparison, and had been used only briefly, a singular moment in the span of ages. But - what a bright moment it was! His life as the Boy Who Lived, as a wizard, as a human, had not faded from his mind in the slightest. For a little while, he had been a Child of Ilúvatar in the fullest - a great gift that he had scarcely understood at the time. Had he chosen to stay, to remain human, he would have passed out of the world when his days were done, as Men did. That is why he chose to retain his mortal name: His life as Harry had been a gift to him, and he would keep it close, in remembrance of the gift that he had lost, if willingly.

Shaking his head as he dismissed his wayward thoughts, Harry tried to focus on the present, though there was little to do at present. He had left mere hours ago, but already he understood that which the Eldar felt when they wished to go to Valinor. They became weary of the passage of time and the troubles of Middle-Earth, and they wished to spend their days in peace. The attraction was powerful, and the lure of a blissful, painless life undeniable. Harry knew, however, that it was far diminished from what it had been in the days that the Eldar first came here. The memories of that time were enough to make him turn away. Those mournful thoughts he would rather not face, not with only himself for company.

"I suppose that you are my train at platform 9¾, this time," Harry murmured as he patted the side of his ship, the one that Varda had created for him. It sailed on its own, and there was nothing to do but wait, and think, and plan. With every silent moment that passed him by, the continent of Aman seemed smaller in his sight, more distant. The evidence of Valinor's presence shrank from view with every gust of wind that caught the sails. He knew that it would not matter if he could see all of Valinor, or merely a glimpse, or nothing at all. He carried it with him. The Eldar were of the world, deeply connected to it, but the Ainur were more that that. They _were _the world. And of all the places in the world, it was here that their roots reached deepest.

Seven years had gone by since he first set foot upon the land of Valinor, since he stepped out of nothingness into blinding light and whirling sound. Into a world of exquisite sensation, where everything had more facets than he remembered, was more _right_. It was seven years since he took his first breath of air filled with sweet-scented blossoms and the odour of perpetually growing grass, swaying in a summer wind. He had collapsed at the foot of a huge tree, enraptured, barely coherent, as he relished in the return of his senses. His time there, below that blossoming tree, was a blink of an eye in the lives of immortals. Even as the sun came up and set again many times, he rested there. However long it took him to process the world as it now was, it was not even long enough for the Ainur to really notice his arrival, let alone interrupt him. He had spent weeks alone before he had even considered leaving – it seemed strange now, that he had forgotten about everything for so long.

In those first weeks, or months - he could not remember with certainty - he had run along the winding mountain paths, bathed in cold streams, and fed on the berries and fruits around him, without a thought for what he was supposed to be doing. He had not considered more than the present, as though all else was lost to him, and much of each day had been spent with just staring at the stars or the sunlit lands around him. The rest of the time, he mostly just thought about things. Not about the past, at first, or even about himself. He thought of irrelevant things, of things he found around him in the woods and streams. He considered the merits of particular fruits, he decided upon his favourite time of day. It was in many ways the most calming time of his life – it gave him a chance to just exist.

The Music in his mind was ever-present, flowing through the air around him as if it was tangible, more than just a sound he had invented. He knew now that he had been far more accurate than he realized. It was everywhere – and everywhere was the Music. Harry had found himself singing nonsense songs, little meaningless tunes that incorporated a single tone, or a few, of that grand melody. Looking back on that time, he felt like he had been a child, or the closest thing to it that he could remember being. It was like he was catching up for all the years at the Dursleys that he had to hide his childish activities, for fear of reprimand. In that sense, a few weeks or months were scarcely a long time to spend on it all.

Harry had thought he'd anticipated what immortality would be like, at least a little. He knew about vampires, and ghosts could haunt for centuries. There was Nicholas Flamel, who had lived for more than six-hundred years. Then there was Voldemort, who tried to attain immortality, and used the dark arts to come so very close. For good or bad, his mortal existence had been dominated by another mortal's quest for eternity, by the drive to avoid death at all cost. None of those 'immortals' seemed truly happy with eternity, growing bored or strange – and they all passed on in the end.

The Ainur were different. Fundamentally different.

The world was forever, or the closest thing to it, yet it was younger than the Ainur, and would end before they did. The Ainur were the offspring of _Thought_, the first droplets from the wellspring of Creation. The Music was composed by Eru Ilúvatar, designed by him – and the Valar and the Maiar were its performers, just as they were a part of its melodies, incorporating themselves into the depths of the notes at the beginning of all things.

He did not remember very much yet, from those days before being Harry Potter, before mortality, but he knew enough. He was still adjusting, slow in accepting internally what he already knew by the words of the Valar. He heard the Music even now, as he had begun humming it to himself almost by instinct, when all other sensation had fallen away in the space between spaces. He knew his part, even if he did not know to what end it was played, and he was content with that. The rest would come back to him with time.

In the Music he felt the history that had passed, and though he did not know precisely what happened, its weight was a comfortable assurance that things would endure. He felt the future as well, stretching into the unknown. It was both joyful and filled with darkness, an endless pattern that he was ill-equipped to understand. A vague outline of what would become. Above all, he knew to his core that he would be there through it all, one way or another. For good or ill. That was what the Ainur were meant to do, that was what Ilúvatar intended.

Time worked differently when it was measured in centuries or millennia rather than months or years; when eternity was a fact, rather than something conceptual, time stretched out into perpetuity. That is why nobody had come for him in his garden, for what any mortal would consider a long time. Those weeks were mere moments, barely worth mentioning in truth. If he had stayed a decade in that garden, and cared nothing for the world outside, then the other Ainur would have let him. Indeed, the only Vala who looked in on him silently was someone he would later come to know more closely the tender of those gardens: Lórien, the Dreamer.

He had not lost his humanity, Harry had realized with some relief, when he finally retrieved the pieces of his earthly life and tried to make sense of things. He dragged himself out of a second childhood into reluctant adolescence and straight on to begrudging maturity, hoping to find out what it all meant, what being one of the Ainur, an _angel_, truly implied. He had walked into the wilds with the intent of finding someone else besides himself, to understand what his purpose was. He had discovered the edge of the garden in minutes, as if it had been there all along if only he looked for it, and there had been a fountain there, surrounded by dozens of Maiar and Eldar. They were welcoming people, friendly people, and of them he had only good memories.

It was a strange feeling, to now look back upon his humanity as one of the Ainur. He had understood more than most how fragile life could be, that it could all be over in a heartbeat. He knew what it was like to savour every day and every shared moment, as there had been no certainty that he would live another day, especially during his time evading Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Yet, at the same time, he had a name that predated the stars, that transcended the very world. He knew the boundlessness of being no more than spirit almost by instinct - he spoke old languages with no more trouble than English. The duality of things was not unpleasant - everything seemed to gain another dimension when he realized with a start that what one side of him considered mundane, the other could watch for hours, days.

Harry had spent a long time considering his past and future, or both of his pasts, within the great gardens of Lórien. He had rested there, and perhaps healed if not in body, at least in soul. He had met the Vala who shared the name of the gardens, the very one who had kept an eye on him before. Years of fear and uncertainty, insecurity and loathing, were washed away under the boughs of the magnificent trees, among the vast fields that stretched to the horizon, where the great fountain flowed with clean water.

It was to Lórien that Harry had first explained his grief for those he had lost in mortal life. It was he who had introduced him to Nienna, one of the Valier, the Queens of the Valar. Though Lórien spoke of dreams and hopes, and Mandos of obligations and doom, she was the caring middle, the one who embodied the pessimism that Lórien rarely voiced, and the optimism that Mandos never did. Above all, she had empathy, and a deep understanding of the Children of Ilúvatar.

She often came to the Halls of Mandos, where the dead Eldar rested before their rebirth, and Men passed through before they went on their own way. She counselled the dead so that they might revive themselves and live again in Valinor, or find peace in their demise, and her ever-present tears represented her empathy for all. In those halls, when he had joined her there, Harry had met with some of them as well. The recently deceased, or great figures of history, long dead and unwilling to leave the safety of the halls. There he had learned much in the ways of Middle-Earth, and the wisdom of those who looked back on misused lives, realizing and accepting their mistakes.

He also spoke to Námo, who was known with the name of his Halls here: Mandos. He was grim and unyielding, more so than he had been to Harry in their first discussion, and he never spoke outside his halls, though his will was clear despite this. Even when he did converse, Mandos chose his words carefully, speaking only when he counselled with Manwë, King of the Valar about matters of fate. His will was harsh and would not budge, since it was an echo of the will of Eru himself, and though Harry knew the Vala cared, it was sometimes hard to realize that harshness did not preclude such. Perhaps he had an unfair advantage, as the only Maia sworn to the Doomsman's service.

Three years after his arrival, it had felt as if he had been here an age or more. In that time he had spoken with those three of the Valar most frequently, though he had met all. Free to shape himself as he liked, one of the boons of being a Maia, Harry had then chosen to walk among the Eldar as one of their kin, because his human body would seem small and strange among all these tall people. As he did so, he had taken up his oldest name in that guise. He kept his most distinctive features intact, though: His father's raven-black hair, and his mother's emerald eyes.

In those years he had learned to live again, without the insecurities of the war against Voldemort, and had spent another four years among the People of the Stars. He had learned a great deal about their character, and taken some of their ways to heart, sometimes reflecting on how similar, yet different, even the most mundane of actions seemed. He had learned about the faults of the Eldar, too. Their pride, their stubbornness, their love of the past, to the detriment of the future. He would have a lot of work to do in Middle-Earth, considering the most stubborn of all were still there.

That was one of the very reasons he was leaving Valinor, far sooner than Mandos had originally expected. These were still the first years of the Second Age, and Middle-Earth was still recovering from the great War of Wrath - it would not be easy to be the bearer of bad news to people who had already faced so much of it. In a few days, Harry intended to meet with the King of the Noldor, or at least the king of those who still remained upon the mainland after their long exile was finally ended. He would find out if he could prevent what would lead to misery and death in the future - or find another worthy goal. Mandos had given him but a few orders. And they would be obeyed.

Stepping down from the back of the ship and sitting down upon the comfortable padded bench at its centre, Harry adjusted his dark green robe and the Invisibility Cloak that hung down his back. The latter was visible now, though it was ready to hide him from all sight by his command. He wore the Resurrection Stone set in a ring on his finger, and the Elder Wand was in his pocket, ready to be drawn. They were the tools of his trade, in a sense.

The great power that the Ainur possessed simmered languidly under the surface unless he called upon it, and the three Hallows would channel it as he wished. Magic tingled at his fingertips, the kind he had learned to use at Hogwarts, ready to be used in ways that he could not have imagined before. He hoped he would not need to tap into such abilities, as they would attract attention – including the worst kind – but he was content in knowing that he had them. For the first time in thirty years, for the first time in this age, one of the Ainur would serve for the benefit of Middle-Earth again.

The last of Valinor's mountains, great Taniquetil, slowly dipped below the horizon. Harry expected something to happen – a dimming of light, or a sinking feeling. The sea remained the same. The world felt no different. He could sense the power of the Valar even now – great Varda, noble Manwë, empathetic Nienna, restful Irmo, and unyielding Námo foremost. They were woven into the very world, and it was woven into them.

Harry crossed his legs, and faced the future. In three days, he would reach Middle-Earth. In three days, the first Maiar of the Second Age would walk upon Middle-Earth's shores.

With a smile, he hummed of hope, and he wondered if this counted as his next great adventure.

* * *

The white ship glided into the bay silently, its great sail half-lowered, though shimmering brightly. It looked almost immaterial under the dim starlight that illuminated the bay, a lone spot of light in the inky black of night.

A few lone torches shone from atop tall towers that surrounded the Gulf of Lhûn, the only light in miles, save for small oil lamps that stood upon porches along the harbor, flickering in the wind. Several of the towers burst alive with activity as the night watch noticed the new vessel - Indeed, it passed by several large Eldar vessels without slowing down, as if a path had been laid out beforehand.

The white ship was made of impossibly curved wood, as if grown rather than cut, with a sail so bright that it seemed made of the moonlight itself, and its hull that resembled a great swan. Carved onto the prow was a shape like a woman wearing a formal robe, with a jewelled crown of stars upon her head. Varda, Queen of the Valar. The great ships of the Eldar, many of which dotted both sides of the river mouth, were marvels of engineering and art with beautifully decorated prows and tall sails built upon their great grey hulls. Compared to the gleaming wonder that approached the havens of Mithlond, though, they were as hollowed-out trees.

"Lord Círdan!" Seron called, and the Master of the Havens slowly turned to meet his aide's eyes as he leaned over the edge of his terrace to take in the sight. "The ship will soon make landfall. What is your command?"

Círdan studied the white speck on the waters again for a moment, brow furrowed. There was little evidence that he had been resting less than ten minutes earlier, save for the ruffled silver-grey hair that hung haphazardly over his shoulders rather than neatly tucked behind pointed ears. "It seems as though the stories were true," he said gravely. "I had denounced them as folly, yet cannot deny my own eyes. A white ship has come to Mithlond." In an uncharacteristic display of emotion, he shook his head in fading disbelief.

"It has taken a mere day to come here from where it was first sighted, only hours after the fastest of our birds found these shores," Seron observed. "It travels like the wind, though it is not a vessel of spirits, as some believed. Still, it resembles ships of legend..." He looked almost anxious. "Could it really be a ship from beyond? Could it carry our own, come back from across the sea?"

Círdan paused at the idea. "Doubtful. Those who left were adamant about their decision, and the Valar would protect them on their way to the Blessed Land." He narrowed his eyes. "We must not tarry, regardless of what the ship carries to us. Arrange for a messenger to the High King." He paused momentarily. "No, there are few who would be a better choice than yourself, for you are among our fastest riders. Retrieve a steed, and pack for swift travel. You must leave before daybreak."

Seron nodded, straightening. "What should I tell Lord Gil-Galad?"

"I will send a falcon to you as soon as I know more of this, of course," Círdan responded immediately. "The moment that my letter arrives, make for the northern gates." He reached into his pocket, retrieving a small bauble, and gazed at it for a long moment. Then he reached out, and opened his hand. "Take this."

"Your signet ring?" Seron asked in surprise. "But…?"

"I have more than one," Círdan said easily, though he knew why Seron looked so surprised. His signet ring was a remnant of the early first age – the others he had were mere duplicates of this one. Seron had not even been born yet when this had found its way into Círdan's possession, a relic from the earliest Teleri, though it was doubtlessly created by the Noldor, mighty craftsmen amongst the Eldar. "I trust you will keep it safe. It will be proof enough that you come in my name."

"I understand, and I will make certain it returns to your hand." Seron bowed, deeper than was necessary. "I will take my own steed. I know her best, and she is among the fastest." He looked uncertainly towards the north. "Lord Círdan - It may take days before there is a response, even at full gallop. The King is far afield, and he does not care to be interrupted while he is engaged in battle with the monsters of Morgoth."

"Find him, nevertheless," Círdan said sharply. "Whether he is waging war or peace, he ought to know what happens within his borders. Lord Gil-Galad would disapprove if we forewent informing him of important events, even if he chooses not to act upon them."

Seron gave another small bow as he retreated from the terrace. Círdan watched the departure with a heavy heart, since he knew that the High King could be stalwart and unmoving. Lindon was not yet secure from surrounding threats, and with the last of Morgoth's forces drawing back across the mountains, there were some who chose not to vanish into obscurity. They fought with malice, and the Eldar had to meet force with force.. It would be years yet until the borders were cleansed, until the enemy that had led to its creation as a kingdom was finally defeated. In these uncertain times, Seron was among the only ones that Círdan trusted on this side of the great ocean.

The white ship lowered its sail, slowly coasting forward using only the smaller front sail. Its hull barely seemed to cut through the water at all, leaving it nearly still even as it passed, and Círdan nodded in approval at the quality of its construction. And for the first time, he glimpsed the one who sailed upon it.

Caught in reflected starlight and the flickers of many torches, there stood a figure upon the back of the vessel, with hair short and wild like Men favoured. Círdan saw a glimmer of light from the newcomer's hand, as if a cold star had very briefly shone there, though it vanished almost as quickly.

"A star shines upon the hour of our meeting," Círdan murmured to himself, contemplative. The figure on the ship briefly turned towards him as if he had heard the comment, just as his ship passed closest to the terrace upon which Círdan stood. The distance and light made all unclear, but the two locked eyes for a moment. Then the stranger stepped up to the prow of the ship, balancing on it as he looked out over the bay, and Círdan followed his gaze.

Already, there were some Eldar who followed the ship along the shoreline, moving swiftly to catch up with it. If this were one of their own returning, then he had to be a mighty Lord indeed, for the Valar would not so easily lend their wondrous ships. Numerous possibilities ran through the mind of Círdan as he made his way off his terrace and down alongside the waterline to the docks. Still, he was obligated to welcome emissaries of foreign nations, now that the king was away. If he was right, then this new visitor was from the most distant of all.

The ship stilled a distance away from the shoreline, and Círdan made his way onto the soft sand. Half a dozen armed guards had positioned themselves at the waterline already, and twice as many stood with raised bow upon the pale grass that bordered the beach. Their caution was not a surprise: Over the last few weeks three ships had sailed into the harbour carrying traitorous men from the south, out to pillage and slay.

"Lo, those upon the great ship from the West!" Círdan called out as he passed his people with a gesture of calm, and he was glad to note that many took their hands off their weapons or at least slackened their grip. "We bid you welcome, if you come in peace! If you do not, then turn and return from whence you came, for these Havens are protected!"

There was a silence for a time, and though there was a rustling from its deck, the ship remained stationary. At last, when Círdan moved to call again, there came a response.

"I come in peace, as a friend. I'm alone!" The voice was clear and melodious as it echoed over the water, and the white ship sailed forward again. Bypassing the docks entirely, the ship moved right up to the shore without using sails or oars. Its prow came to rest upon the sand, and poised atop it was the man that Círdan had seen before.

The stranger's dark hair was cut short, and it had no true style as most Eldar preferred. It simply seemed to fall naturally into a chaotic mess, and lacked the weight to straighten out. It was the newcomer's gaze, however, that truly caught Círdan by surprise. His eyes were a bright, shining green even in the late night, almost glowing with intensity, and they seemed to twinkle with unspoken humour or excitement. The stranger looked over the assembled guards in appreciation, and nodded. There was no apprehension or even fear as he casually put a foot into empty air, falling swiftly and landing with such grace upon the sand that Círdan's suspicion of human heritage fled. Those green eyes focused on him again.

"Lord Círdan," he spoke softly, bowing slightly, and he raised a hand to his ship, briefly touching the statue upon its prow. "I was told you were a master of ships. I assume you can take care of this one?" He smiled. "It was a gift, so I would hate to see it fall apart while I'm not using it. I might just need it again."

"It shall be done," Círdan said immediately, though he frowned. "Beautiful though your vessel is, stranger, I would request your name and your purpose, before we negotiate any further. Odd folk are abroad, and we cannot be too careful." He glanced aside to his fellow Eldar, who had tightened their grip again. "There has been much strife of late, and trust is hard-won in these lands, even among the closest of kin."

"I do not think this is the place for that kind of conversation, though," the stranger replied easily, and Círdan noted the arrival of more Eldar from along the river, come to see the white ship and its occupant. The stranger seemed unperturbed. "Perhaps we can speak more privately?"

Círdan paused as if considering the offer. Though he could not be certain, he had never seen a creature of the dark that could mimic one of the Eldar so perfectly, and that silent power he perceived remained dormant, but it spoke of authority. "If you leave your weapons, should you have any, I can allow this," he said at last.

The stranger frowned momentarily, and then shrugged. "Well, I have something that can be _used_ as a weapon, but I do not really want to part from it. I hardly carry swords, knives or bows, though." He gestured to his robe. "As you can see."

Círdan hesitated, and then nodded. "Give that which you mentioned to me, then – I will keep it close, so that you will not lose track of it." He gestured to the guards, who immediately backed away. Then, Círdan tapped his own blade in warning. "As I said – we are well-protected."

The stranger slowly retrieved a long stick from his pocket, and muttered something under his breath, before he flipped it over, and offered it to the Shipwright. Círdan didn't betray his confusion as he reached out, and the stranger shuffled back a step, jerking back the stick. "I give this freely, for you to hold on to until I ask for it again. I do not consider this winning it by conquest. Do you?"

"No, I do not," Círdan replied flatly. He wondered about the question as he took the object. As he touched the twig, a sudden burst of melancholy tore through him, catching him off guard. Dread crept up on him, and he released the stick as if it burned his skin, and it fell neatly into his pocket. He glanced up in consternation, and caught the stranger's gaze again.

"Please keep it safe," the newcomer said, smiling sadly. He glanced at the pocket momentarily. "It will not truly harm those with a good heart, not merely by touching it."

Círdan gathered himself silently, showing nothing of his concern as he nodded. "Please, follow me."

The two did not speak at all as they travelled the road back to Círdan's house. The large manor they headed to was the largest in reach of the docks. It was also within shouting distance of a garrison of soldiers, placed there by High King Gil-Galad himself when he was last at the Havens.

The stranger seemed to know where they were going, and took in the tall houses of the Eldar with a curious expression. "You have greatly extended the havens in only a few years," he noted mid-stride. "The last map I saw of it was inaccurate. There were only four grey ships accounted for – I count nine now, and I suspect you have more under construction. You expand at an impressive speed, I must say. There could not be more than a few years between the two, given what a brief time it has been since the end of the war."

"We try - thirty years have passed since the fall of Beleriand, and we have used them well," Círdan noted, and he thought of the seven partially completed ships that were being constructed a few dozen miles further along the coast. Four more were now at the two other harbours along the coast. Círdan knew he was one of the few shipwrights who could make vessels sturdy enough to make the journey across the whole sea – though he would not take one himself, as he had sworn long ago. Each of the ships were at least in part his handiwork. "I have been creating many vessels, though mine would seem like children's toys compared to your own."

The stranger smiled warmly. "I rather doubt there are any ships like it on this side of the sea, though I admire your handiwork."

Círdan nodded as he opened the door to his home; it was decorated with many tools of his trade. Nets hung upon the walls, and there were many old tables and chairs that would fit within a ship, from Men or Eldar alike. Upon the mantle stood a row of exquisitely carved model ships, with small but functional masts and sails. In the middle of them, standing out even among the others as a gemstone amidst rocks, was the greatest ship that Círdan had ever made. It was Vingilótë, with which Eärendil had crossed the seas to reach Valinor. Upon its prow stood a tall eagle, symbolic of Manwë's might.

"You know what I am, do you not? You are certainly wary enough to suggest that you do," the newcomer said lightly as he sat down at the largest window without even considering any other chair, and he glanced outside. Círdan sat down across from him, placing the wooden stick before him on the table with his sleeve, where both could see it.

"I have an inkling," Círdan confirmed. "You hail from Valinor, do you not?" he conjectured, though he was briefly speechless at the very concept. It was the most plausible explanation, Seron's idea, but it seemed strange to think of someone returning across the ocean for any reason that he cared to think about. "No Eldar has ever returned from the far coasts without being banished, to my knowledge."

"That's still the case, I suppose," the dark-haired man said in a surprisingly light tone. He looked back to Círdan with a smile. "I am known as Varwë, across the ocean. That name will serve, though I am confident I will earn a few more along the way. Names are tricky things like that, you end up with more than you can remember, and twice as many behind your back on top of that." He carded his fingers together as he leaned forward. "I was hoping for a little more insight, though. I was told that you have long served the Valar, as I do."

Círdan blinked. "That is true."

Varwë glanced aside, looking vaguely amused. "That is why I came to you, for you are different than your brethren. It is why I landed at Mithlond, and not far to the north or south, where my presence would not be noticed." He smiled encouragingly, then. "You _will _meet the Valar, someday. That was told to me by someone I trust deeply, and when he says things, they tend to mean something." His eyes twinkled as he gazed outside, and he sighed. Círdan watched as the man seemed to mull something over, glancing back at him and narrowing his eyes for a moment. "Forgive me for asking, but - I find it interesting that your largest window faces west. It looks out over that which you have been denied, the very ocean that you were asked not to cross. Does it not hurt?"

Cirdan met the curious gaze coldly. "I do not hold a grudge over the time I have to wait," he said shortly, and though he glanced briefly to the waters, he did not care to think too deeply of it. He had spent long evenings just staring out across the water, content that he was closest of all the Eldar in Middle-Earth to those distant lands. He knew that he would be among the last to set sail - if he did not go to the Halls of Mandos first.

"Not holding grudges, that is commendable." Varwë nodded in appreciation. "You gave up a lot for your people, you are still giving up a much happiness to serve the Valar. I can relate to that." His gaze was unfocused, dreamy, as if he was seeing something far beyond just the darkened sea as he stared out over the water. "To give up _that – _even for a time – is very difficult. The great mountains, the beautiful gardens, the great halls. There is much wonder, many things to miss..." He looked away, and smiled. "Still, I am certain that Middle-Earth has its own little miracles, do you not agree? Were that not the case, why would anyone live here?" He chuckled to himself.

Círdan looked away. "I take it you have been there, and then chose to return to this land of misery? Why? Even now, Lindon barely established itself – and we are with far fewer than before. The Sindar are intent on leaving eastwards, and those of the Noldor that remain here are conflicted about their future course. I know even less of the Men, these Edain."

Varwë shrugged. "Perhaps such matters will not all be on your shoulders anymore, but on mine too. I made an oath to my master to do what I could, you know. Years ago, I would have feared to come here, to step into uncertainty and violence from a place of peace. Still, it is not the first time I walk into turbulent times, and I am better prepared, this time." He turned to look back over the water, his expression sad rather than wistful.

Círdan frowned. "I do not follow."

Varwë smiled sadly. "I was told that you, of all the Eldar, would know most acutely what the Valar intend with the world. I assumed that you would recognize me, but you clearly see me as one of your own, even as I sit before you. I suppose that means I'm good at limiting myself." He smiled, pulling at the corner of his cloak "I'm curious - would you recognize Eönwë, great leader of war, or Ilmarë, handmaiden of Lady Varda? Or fair Melian, who followed Vána and Estë? Each had their reason for being here, their role to play. None of them were of your kin. I am but a new link in that chain."

Círdan's eyes widened in recognition, then, and cold fear suddenly seemed to grasp him like a vice. "They were - _You are - _?"

"Of the Ainur? Yes."

The pronouncement was made lightly, almost casually, but Círdan felt the weight of it descend, the realization of what this unassuming being was. Varwë's eyes seemed to shine then, and Círdan felt like he should shy away from the undisguised power of that gaze, far greater than before. There was unspoken authority there, that settled on him like inevitability. "You understand then. I thought you would," the _Maia _said.

"But the Valar would not send one of their kin here, unless – " Círdan paled. "There will be _another _war? So quickly after the last one? Our people have scarcely recovered from the ruin of Beleriand! We cannot survive another onslaught!"

Varwë shook his head. "There is still time, if we act quickly." He frowned. "My master would not be specific, for fear of the consequences, but he told me enough. I know there is time, and among the Eldar, that can mean an age. Hatred simmers among you, it does not boil over quickly. But – grudges also last forever. A simmering fire can still ignite into something unstoppable. If I have to, I will stamp out the crackling coals."

Círdan looked fearful, then, as he understood the analogy. "You - Who _is_ your master?"

Varwë's eyes caught his again, and suddenly Círdan recognized the inevitability, the harshness that lurked behind the friendly smile, the congenial nod. Not the Lord of Arda, or great Ulmo, or even dreaded Melkor as he had feared for a brief moment. "My master is Lord Mandos. The Judge of the Dead," he said. "And I am his Herald. The Master of Death."


End file.
